Promise Me
by OneCutePug
Summary: What happens when your family and friends are hunted because of something you did? "W-will y-you wa-atch over-r h-him fo-or me-e, Jo-John? "P-please, J-John?" He struggles to bat John's hand away from the bullet wound, but only succeeds in smearing more crimson on the back of the doctor's hand. "P-promise me-e..." "I promise I will always watch over Sherlock."
1. Chapter 1 - Mycroft

**Hello, everyone! My good friend Loki's Cheesecake and I wanted to write a Sherlock fan-fiction! Now, we're both new to this, so we'd prefer if you kept any reviews to just a nice comment or constructive criticism, and no flames! This is our first go at co-authoring a story, so we'll have to see how it goes! **

**Now, this is also a first go at an angsty/tragedy story, so any tips for that would be nice. So, since it's angsty and tragic, there is character death. Let me repeat that: WARNING: CHARACTER DEATH(S). There will probably also be language, and perhaps detailed descriptions. So just a warning, here. **

**Hope you enjoy, leave a review! Have a good Thanksgiving!**

** -****OneCutePug & Loki's Cheesecake**

* * *

With his eyes closed, he could have been back in Afghanistan.

The warm, wet blood soaking into his jumper, the grip of a clenched hand in his own, the heavy weight of someone lying in his arms.

The worst one was the hollow rasping from the fallen man, trying to coax air into his lungs. That sound never changed, and it still haunts him in his dreams.

The grip on his hand tightens slightly, and Doctor John Hamish Watson looks down into the dying man's eyes.

Funny, he'd never really noticed that they were brown. Usually he'd been focused on how cold and devoid of emotion they were. They were ice, always empty, hollow.

They aren't cold anymore. His eyes, wide with terror and panic, are already beginning to glaze over.

John knows it won't be long now.

Mycroft coughs, and John can feel more of his blood trickle down onto his legs. He presses down harder on the wound with his other hand and tries not to cringe at the older man's cry of pain.

"Shhhh… Shhhh… Don't worry, Mycroft," John soothes, forcing his voice to hide all traces of panic he feels raging inside. He squeezes his hand again. "Everything is going to be okay…"

The elder Holmes' breath hitches, and a sudden realization shines in his eyes. _I'm not going to survive this, am I, Doctor Watson? _They scream, but John can't look away. The look of utter defeat on the once proud man's face would forever haunt the doctor.

By now, Mycroft's brown eyes are almost completely glazed over, and his grip on John's hand is loosening.

"W-will y-you wa-atch over-r h-him fo-or me-e, Jo-John?"

John has to swallow the sudden hysteria forcing its way up his throat, threatening to choke him. "Don't talk like that, Mycroft!" John chides gently, blinking a few tears from his eyes. He rips off another piece off the bottom of his jumper to press down on the wound. He tosses the soaked piece away, and it lands next to the umbrella.

The handle has bloody fingerprints smeared all over.

Mycroft somehow manages to give John the signature Holmes' _I don't believe you now give me what I want _face and chokes out a "P-please, J-John?" He struggles to bat John's hand away from the bullet hole, but only succeeds in smearing more crimson on the back of the doctor's hand. "P-promise me-e..."

John takes a shaky breath, but removes his hand from Mycroft's chest. "Always, Mycroft. I promise I will always watch over Sherlock," and Mycroft smiles, one last time.

John is still holding his hand as Mycroft slips away. One final gasp for air and it's all over. The end of a life of a brilliant man.

John sits back on his heels and tries to wipe the hair out of his eyes; it's sticking to his forehead from cold sweat. Out of his peripheral vision, the umbrella catches his eye.

Mycroft's umbrella. The one he was always twirling around, or leaning on. John could only think of him using it once, and he gives a small shudder as he thinks of the memories that followed. Reaching out, he grabs it, and places it in one of its owner's hands.

With trembly, bloodstained fingers, he pulls his phone out of his pocket and dials up Lestrade. Two rings pass before the detective inspector picks up.

_Hello? _He asks wearily.

_G-Greg? _

_John? _

_P-please, will you come? And will you bring Sherlock?_

* * *

The ambulances come first. They rush into the warehouse and lift Mycroft's body up onto a stretcher, stretching a pristine white sheet over his still form. The police cars follow soon behind, and Anderson and Donovan stalk out. He sees when they glance at him, and then look around for the 'Freak,' but otherwise leave him alone. Their qualm isn't with him, anyway.

When the paramedics finally notice he's shaking uncontrollably, they give John, as what he and Sherlock have playfully called, a 'shock blanket.' They wrap it around his shoulders and leave him sitting alone on the stairs, while they bustle about. Most ignore him, but a few give him sad, pitying looks.

He notices they leave the bloodied umbrella in its place.

He is unaware of his surroundings until Lestrade and Sherlock arrive in an unmarked police car, Lestrade barking orders into his cell phone, and Sherlock looking slightly bored as always. He's still in his navy blue robe, and Lestrade continues to cast exasperated looks at the younger man.

As Sherlock steps out of the car, all Sherlock sees is John in the corner with a shock blanket around him and a body covered with a white sheet. John practically burrows into the blanket when Sherlock turns his gaze to him, and Sherlock mentally wonders what could have happened that his brave army doctor couldn't have handled.

John watches him with sad eyes as Sherlock continues to observe the area. His eyes fall onto the umbrella. His older brother's umbrella is surrounded by a pool of blood, and his eyes grow wide.

"Mycroft," he breathes.

John can barely stand to look at his flatmate. His eyes. John has never seen so much sadness and sorrow in them before. As quickly as the sadness enters, it leaves, and Sherlock's blank, cold expression returns. He strides over to the beloved umbrella.

_FLASHBACK~_

"_Hello, Brother Dear." _

"_Hello, Mycroft. Happy birthday." Sherlock forces a smile onto his face and hands over a long, thin box to the elder. _

_A brief look of surprise flashes across Mycroft's face, and he gently takes off the lid. "An umbrella?" _

_The only reply Mycroft gets is silence. _

"_Thank you, Sherlock," Mycroft murmurs. "This is the first gift you've gotten me in years." _

_Sherlock 'hmms' at this, but says nothing more about it. "How's the diet?" _

_END OF FLASHBACK~ _

Sherlock bends over and picks it up. He glances at his brother. Cold and lifeless. John watches as Sherlock makes his way over to him. He could've sworn he saw a tear roll down his partner's face, but it could have been his own tears messing with his vision.

John wordlessly holds up the other end of the orange blanket, and Sherlock crawls in next to him. Sherlock registers the crimson stains splattered around, and then the dried blood peeling off his hands like old paint, and only one word is continuously echoing through his brain.

**MYCROFT.**

* * *

"John?" The doctor jerks awake when someone whispers in his ear. He lifts up his head from the shoulder which he had fallen asleep on. "John, wake up." He takes a deep breath and blinks to clear his vision. He looks up to see Lestrade standing over him, looking uncomfortable with a pad of paper and pen, and Sherlock to his right, two inches away from his own face. Neither one of them make any notion to move.

"John, you're going to have to be awake for this." Sherlock forces the fakest smile on John's ever seen on his face (and that's saying something) and nods his head towards Lestrade. His voice is even more emotionless than normal, and so are his eyes.

"John?" He tears his gaze back to Greg, who is beginning to look even more apologetic and uncomfortable than ever. Lestrade exchanges another silent look with Sherlock and sighs. "I need to know what happened tonight. And why I have Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, lying dead in the morgue with a bullet wound in his chest." John can feel Sherlock tense up slightly underneath the shock blanket.

John sighs, feeling a kind of heaviness in his gut as he realizes that it wasn't a dream, and that everything that had just happened was REAL.

He sighs. "It all started when I was walking home from the grocery store,"

FLASHBACK~

"Have a good day, sir!" The smiling brunette gave John a cheery grin as he grabbed his bag with the two cartons of milk and pushed open the door and walked out. He held it open for a little old lady who practically praised him to high heavens and then began walking down the road. He shoved his hands into his pockets and the bag settled into the crease in his elbow.

The street was quiet, but illuminated with the lampposts and houselights he was walking past. A low hum buzzed behind him, and he turned around to see a sleek black car drive up. He groaned and shook his head in irritation when it pulled up beside him.

The window rolled down, and John was looking at Mycroft's assistant Anthea. Or whatever her real name was.

"Would you get into the car, please, Doctor Watson?" She didn't even glance up from her Blackberry, and he wondered what she was always doing on it. John sighed, but walked around to the other side of the car and got in.

They started driving, and John shifted around in discomfort. "Can Mycroft make it quick this time?" He asked, gaining Anthea's attention. "I bought milk." He held up the bag awkwardly, and she gave him a half smile and turned back to her phone. He sighed. "That's what I thought."

They drove in relative silence for another few minutes, with a few awkward attempts from John to begin a conversation with Anthea. Finally, he gave up, and Anthea smiled to herself. The car slowed, and slowed, until it pulled to a stop, and Anthea gestured towards the door.

"Have a good day, Doctor Watson." She said coolly, glancing up once more at the blonde before he shut the door and shoved his hands into his pockets.

_That didn't work,_ he thought, and shook his head. He strolled into the building, an abandoned warehouse. _Mycroft's got excellent taste in arranged meeting places, _John thought sarcastically as he walked inside.

He looked around and called out a, "Hello?" A very familiar man stepped out of the shadows.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft greeted coolly, a familiar smirk etched upon his face.

"Mycroft," John nodded in return, and Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the ground in front of him. "So why did you kidnap me this time?" John asked somewhat sarcastically, and Mycroft's face screamed _This is why I love cake more then I love people_.

"I'm here to talk to you about Sherlock," he stated, with an expression on his face that screamed _isn't it obvious?_ And John tilted his head to the side in confusion.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Sherlock. That's what the majority of our conversations revolve around, isn't it?" John suppressed a sigh.

"It seems like it is," John forced a smile on his face. "Now, what's wrong with Sherlock? Is there a danger night or something that's coming up?"

Mycroft chuckled and shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Doctor Watson. This is about what my brother was doing during his absence," and John's smile dropped.

"The three years?"  
"Yes; it seems Sherlock was doing his best to take down the remaining webs in Jim Moriarty's empire, so to speak. And he succeeded with most of them…"

"Most of them?"

"You see, Moriarty had a right hand man: his sniper, Sebastian Moran, an ex-military man, much like yourself. However, when Moriarty killed himself, Sebastian swore revenge on Sherlock, and everyone he's close too, including yourself, the detective, Gregory Lestrade, your landlady, Mrs. Hudson, and the pathologist. Molly Hooper, was her name?"

John waited for another moment, but it seemed like he was finished with his lecture."A-And? You want all of us to go into protection?" Mycroft opened his mouth as to reply but john cut him off, and Mycroft had another irritated look on his face. "What about YOU? Wouldn't you have to go into hiding as well?"

Mycroft had a sad smile on his face. "I'm not important to Sherlock. I'm just-"

A gunshot rang out, and John whirled around, looking out the window towards the buildings across the street. A single bullet hole cut the center of the glass, and John whipped back around.

If it hadn't hit him then it had hit….

"Mycroft!" John shouted. The elder Holmes brother stood in the exact same position John had left him in, swaying slightly. His mouth was hanging open, and a single hole was dripping blood in his chest. "NO!"

_END OF FLASHBACK~ _

Lestrade has a horrified expression on his face when John finishes telling the events, and Sherlock sits quiet next to him.

"I- I don't know what to say," Lestrade stammers out, folding the notepad back up and slipping it into his pocket. "Just… Just…" He releases a deep breath, and Sherlock stands up, slipping the shock blanket off of his shoulders.

"I think John's been through enough tonight, Detective Inspector," Sherlock says coldly, blue eyes flashing, facing the grey-haired man. Lestrade gives a small nod and turns towards John.

"Go home, John. Go and get some sleep." John nods, mumbles his thanks, and Lestrade turns and walks off towards Sergeant Donovan, who's talking to one of the paramedics. "Wait!" He calls out. "Did you see the tiger mark on the wall?" John shook his head, and Lestrade looks a tad disappointed. "Go home, John."

Sherlock mutters something to himself about looking into it later and then turns back towards his friend and holds out a long, slender hand. "Come on, John. We need to leave." John holds his own out, and tries not to wince at the thought of Sherlock touching his bloodstained hands, covered in the blood of his older brother. Sherlock doesn't seem to mind, and he gently pulls John to the road, where he hails a cab immediately.

The ride back to 221B is silent, with Sherlock lost in his thoughts the entire time. John tries to wrap the shock blanket tighter around his shoulders, and Sherlock finally jerks out of his mind palace.

"Are you cold?" He asks, preparing to take off his coat and give it to John, and John shakes his head.

"Just a bit shaken up. I'll be fine." When Sherlock casts an unbelieving look at him, he protests, "I'm fine!"

The cab pulls up to a stop, and Sherlock actually pays and waits for John to shuffle out. He tries to help John up into their apartment, but John bats his attempts away. When they walk in, John immediately turns to go to his room, and Sherlock stops him.

"John, do you want some tea?" He asks, and John can feel the anger at being treated like a child bubbling up.

"I'm FINE!" He throws off the shock blanket and stomps to his room. "I just want to go to bed, Sherlock! Is that too much to ask?!" He rests a hand on the door handle and pauses, turning his head slightly to look at the genius. "Goodnight, Sherlock." He slips inside. "We'll talk in the morning, okay?"

That night, John lies awake. And in one brief moment of realization, he realizes that he didn't only lose a friend, Sherlock lost a big brother.

And that night, when he thinks he hears someone crying, he wants nothing more for it all to be a nightmare.

* * *

**How did we do?! Good, we hope. Let us know in a review! Hope you enjoyed it so far, because we'll be back with more chapters at later dates! Also, Loki's Cheesecake says to review and that she's sorry for an pain or feels we caused! Have a good day! **


	2. Chapter 2 - Recovery

**Hey, guys! Here's chapter 2! Hope y'all will enjoy this little collab! Leave a review, or any constructive critisicm you have for us! We don't own anything, sadly enough. Loki's Cheesecake says she hopes you enjoy, and that she hopes you'll read and enjoy the little spin-off we did named Indestructable. (Don't tell her I said this, but I updated simply because of her birthday today! Haha so wish her a happy bday if ya want.) Sorry for any OOCness, too; everyone grieves differently so we tried our best to imagine how it could be like for our favorite consulting detective and his blogger. Anyway, enjoy! **

* * *

"What the hell was that?" He mumbles, putting his hand over his eyes to block out the light. He groans, flopping back down onto his pillow. He doesn't remember getting into bed or coming home last night. All that comes to mind is a gunshot and blood. So much blood.

John sits up and runs a hand through his hair, and memories of last night flood through his mind. "My God… Mycroft!"

*BAM!*  
"Sherlock!"

His headache instantly diminishes, and grabbing his jumper, he makes his way downstairs to the living room. The room looks like a bomb went off. Chairs are flipped and papers are scattered everywhere.

And yet all John sees is Sherlock.

His blue eyes are red from crying. It seems like John actually did hear him cry last night, and his heart twinges in sadness for his flatmate. John makes a mental note not to say anything, but approaches Sherlock carefully. The younger man doesn't even acknowledge his presence; he just continues to make a reconnaissance into his microscope. John tilts his head slightly to try to see what exactly it is Sherlock is looking at this time, and the genius looks up.

It's so awkward. "Er… hey," John says, forcing a smile.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Hey," he turns his puffy gaze back into the microscope, and John shuffles his feet. He walks over to the couch and sits down, craning his neck to look at the microscope again.

"Er… What are you doing?"

Sherlock doesn't even look up. "Scraped off some of the metal from the bullet found in the corpse to further analyze what gun it was shot from and to then-"

"Wait… where did you get the corpse this time?"

Sherlock pauses and turns his gaze to John slowly. "Mycroft…"

"… Oh." John scratches the back of his neck awkwardly. "Do you…"

"… Do I what?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"John, I'm not five. I don't need to talk." Sherlock practically spits, and John sighs.

"Sherlock, it's perfectly normal for you to feel-"

"John, please. We both know that sociopaths don't feel emotions. Now, would you please leave me ALONE?" Sherlock hisses, looking at the doctor with eyes full of mixed emotions.

John sighs, nods, says he understands.

They both know he really doesn't.

* * *

**Two Weeks Later:**

It's been two weeks since Mycroft's death, and things seem to be going back to normal.

Well, almost.

John has been trying to get Sherlock to open up. He even tried to get Mrs. Hudson to talk to him, but Sherlock not-so-politely told her to drop it.

Even worse, the genius has been going out every night. John fears that they're danger nights, but without Mycroft to confirm, he's been left in the dark. He doesn't return until morning on most days, and John usually falls asleep in his waiting.

"Sherlock, where are you going?" John asks. Sherlock gives him a small glance and finishes shrugging on his coat.

"Out. I'll be back later." He opens the door. "Don't wait up."

They repeat this process every night.

"Well, please be careful."

"Whatever."

John doesn't remember falling asleep that night. (He never does.) But what he especially doesn't recall is ever wrapping the blanket around his shoulders.

* * *

**One Week Later: **  
Walking into their beloved flat, all John wants to do is sleep. It has been 5 days with this stressful case, and John still has no idea who committed the crime. Sherlock flopped back onto their couch, and John sinks down gracefully beside him.

"What exactly happened?" He asks, sparing a glance at the man beside him.

"Oh, it was nothing important. Wife uses cat to eventually murder husband. Serves him right. He was one of those bloody reporters that took the deerstalker pictures." He states flatly.

They sit in silence for a bit, but Sherlock continuously glances out the open window. Finally, he takes one long look at the night sky.

"I'm going out." Sherlock stands up and stalks over to the door. "Don't wait up on me."

The doctor groans. "But we just got home! Aren't you tired?" John questions.

"Nonsense. I'll be back later." And with that, he grabs his navy scarf and strides out into the night.

John sighs and rubs his eyes. Blasted detective and his night owl habits. The blonde grabs his coat and strides out the door.

Something wasn't right with Sherlock, and he was going to find out what.

Keeping out of sight, he watches Sherlock exit a shabby looking bar down the street. The consulting detective turns down an alleyway and disappears out of sight. John rushes in the direction of his flatmate, but turns into a dead end.

That prick. How does he do that? And with that, he turns around and makes his way home on the empty sidewalk.

*CRASH!*  
John comes to a stop in the alleyway off of St. Barts. _Probably just some drunken soul_, He murmurs.

*CRASH!*

Doctor instincts taking over, he turns on his heel and makes his way toward the crashing sound. Next to a shattered beer bottle, a long slumped figure leans against the wall.

"Oh, Sherlock." John moans. "The mess you've made."

Sherlock looks up with dilated eyes. _Is that a look of shame? No, Sherlock Holmes doesn't get ashamed._ John thought. He slides down the wall next to his flatmate, careful not to make any loud noises.

"Talk to me, Sherlock."

"I miss him, John. Oh God, I miss him."

_It all makes since now. _John thought. _The sneaking out. The no emotion since Mycroft's death. _And here he was thinking Sherlock didn't love his brother.

"Shhh, Sherlock… It's okay, it's okay."

"No; no, it's not." Sherlock lifts up his head to look at John. "I should have followed through on Moriarty's connections. I knew I was missing something, but I didn't know what. It's all my fault. All of it…" Sherlock mumbles on drunkenly, something about umbrellas and piggyback rides and good manners.

John feels his heart break at the sound of Sherlock. He reaches out his hand to awkwardly pat the genius on the shoulder, but Sherlock grips it like a lifeline, and John doesn't pull back.

"It's not your fault, Sherlock. Not one bit. You couldn't do anything about it." John whispers softly next to Sherlock's ear.

"Don't be an idiot, John. Or even more of what you are normally." Sherlock slurs. "That's what they all say." Sherlock squeezes his hand tighter, and John sighs.

"I think you've had a little much to drink. Give me that!" He takes the bottle out of Sherlock's hand and chunks it down the alley, making a loud crash.

"You're not the only one who misses him, you know." John admits.

Sherlock looks up. "Reaallly? Who else does too?" He wrinkles up his nose. "Who else would miss that-"

"I do, Sherlock." John rolls his eyes. "After all, no one can take his spot at kidnapping me randomly." He jokes, and Sherlock giggles.

He leans against John's shoulder, and John tries to relax a bit for his sake. "Thank you, John. For everything."

John presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "Shhh. Don't mention it."

* * *

**Four Weeks Later:**

"Sherlock!" John yells, slamming the fridge doors shut. "Why the HELL is there a bloody HAND in the fridge!"

"It's an-"

"Experiment, I know." John rubs his eyes. "Can you at least stop putting them in the bloody fridge though?!"

"Where else am I supposed to put them?" An amused response rings out. "It's not like I can leave them lying around in the bathroom anymore."

_The bathroom? Anymore?! _Johns sighs. _Then again, this is Sherlock we're talking about._

"Sherlock! John!" A third voice yells out. John pokes his head out of the kitchen to see Lestrade bursting into the living room. Sherlock opens one eye from the couch to look at him. "Double homicide. You interested?"

"Depends. Do I have to ride in the cop car?" He closes his other eye, and Lestrade sighs in exasperation.

"Sherlock, no one is going to think anything if you do. But no; we can take the unmarked one." Sherlock swings up and easily steps over the coffee table. He grabs his coat and scarf and walks out the apartment without another word.

John grumbles something under his breath before following his partner's lead. "Is this a good one?" He asks. "Because if I have to deal with another experiment, I think I'm going to lose it." Lestrade rolls his eyes.

"Sometimes I have no earthly idea how you're able to put up with him."

The ride is silent, uneventful, and boring. Sherlock slouches in the passenger side like a grumpy child, and John can't help but roll his eyes.

At least he's back to normal.

After his little… episode four weeks earlier, Sherlock had been steadily improving and becoming more like his usual self.

Neither one talked about that night.

John did, however, take Sherlock to go see Mycroft's grave that night, for the first time since the funeral. Sherlock had rambled, telling stories of when they were kids, things he'd wished he'd said when he had the chance, etc. etc.

John knew that if Sherlock had been sober, there would never be a chance of this happening, so he took the opportunity. He tried not to listen, not to eavesdrop, and yet he found it hard not to.

But one of his stories stuck out more than the others.

**JOHN'S FLASHBACK:**

"_You know he was always looking out for me?" Sherlock slurs, gesturing towards the headstone sloppily. "Even when we were just kids." _

"_I'm sure he was," John reassures, running a hand through his tousled hair._

"_Did I ever tell you about the time he-"_

**Sherlock's Flashback-**

Raindrops begin to swirl the words on the current book Mycroft has his nose in. "Mycroft, it's raining!" little Sherlock whines.

"No dip, Sherlock." Mycroft murmurs, pulling out his Mummy's trusty old umbrella and putting his copy of The Hobbit into his book bag. Harsh winds blow Sherlock's already damp curls all in his face, making him trip over his untied shoes. Mycroft quickly flips his umbrella open and holds it firmly over the two of them.

"My books are getting wet!" Sherlock complains as he tries to reposition his schoolwork underneath him. Mycroft sighs and reluctantly moves so the umbrella so it covers Sherlock and his books. The instant exposure to the rain means Mycroft is soaked to the bone. Sherlock giggles at his brother's matted red hair in his eyes and smiles apologetically. "Thank you, My."

**End of Sherlock's Flashback-**

"_You know, John," Sherlock mumbles. "I don't even remember anymore…" _

_John never realized Sherlock had been lying. _

**END OF JOHN'S FLASHBACK-**

"Hey, Freak!" Donovan taunts as the three men duck under the bright yellow crime scene tape. "Finally back, are we?" Sherlock holds the tape up absently for John, and John flashes him a brief look of thanks.

"Yes, it seems so." Sherlock replies coolly. "It seems, like always, you and your team couldn't solve another case, so yes, I AM back." He struts proudly past her, and John follows with a smirk. Lestrade sighs - would this man EVER behave normally? - but follows the duo to the two bodies.

"Oh," Sherlock calls out with a smirk. "I see you've been scrubbing more floors, right, Sergeant Donovan?" John has to choke down his snickers at the look on her face.

Instantly, Sherlock is on the prowl, looking at clothes, shoes, skin, etc. all to find any shred of information on who the killer may be, and John has to suppress his sigh of amazement at how the genius' mind works... The mind is a wonderful thing, alright. Especially Sherlock Holmes.'

"Well? Lestrade sounds a little too eager, after all, it's only been one minute, John notes, and apparently Sherlock does too, because his eyes light up with a funny kind of excitement and challenge.

"First off, the woman was a teacher; judging by the light brown stains on the end of her sleeve and the pencil shavings stuck inside the seam, a primary school teacher, and from the crayon strokes on it as well, a Kindergarden teacher. Most likely early twenties, and obviously newly married, all from the ring on her finger and by how shiny it still is. Her husband, also obviously not the man lying beside her, has a great deal of money, either came into it or has a high-paying job, most likely the first. And why, if she and her husband are rich, is she still working? Well, for one, she could possibly enjoy her job, but more than likely it's the practice for the baby she's carrying. They have two pets: a dog and a cat, and she's from out of town, but still from England.

"The man, however, has a much different story. No pets, no children, no wife, but he was going out on as date before his death. Just look at his shoes, they're polished! And the cologne, it's quite strong. Almost wondering why no one's mentioned it before. Most likely a business man, judging from his attire, a suit. The indentations on his wrist also prove that he sits at a desk and types all day, most likely an accountant then. His last meal? Fish and chips. There are crumbs all over his coat and face." Satisfied, he sits back,

"So what is the connection?" Sherlock looks up at Lestrade with an 'are you serious?' face. The detective inspector briefly pauses his writing to gaze evenly back, and Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"The connection? They-"

"Detective Inspector?" A young, excited cop runs up, accidentally interrupting Sherlock. He ignores the pointed and outraged look the genius gives Lestrade - either that or his is extremely ignorant - and Lestrade turns and sighs. John has to stifle a smile at the indignant look on his flatmate's face.

"What is it, Nelson?" The young rookie's eyes are alight with excitement, and he can't stop bouncing; John wonders if this is his first real assignment.

"Sir, we found footprints! A trail of footprints leading away; they go into an alley and from there continue out into the street." Sherlock's expression changes, and he immediately stands up.

Nelson jerks back when Sherlock gets up in his face and whispers, "show me where they start." The newbie looks at Lestrade for permission, and Lestrade nods his approval with a wave of his hand.

"Go ahead. Take Sherlock and let him do whatever he wants with them." Nelson looks a little startled, but nods with a 'right away sir' and retraces his steps. Sherlock bobs his head to signify he wants John to follow him, and John does after exchanging knowing looks with Greg.

The trail begins in the alley, and Sherlock bends down and swipes two fingers - with gloves on, of course - into one of the smaller pools of blood. He holds it up to his eyes - beautiful, as always, John notes - and then hums with the notion of a new idea. It's one of the habits he picked up living with Molly after the fall, much to her and John's amusement.

The alley opens up into the street, just like Nelson had said, and the cop and his partner turns towards the left, following the obvious blood trail. Sherlock, utterly concentrating, is following with the intent of figuring out why the drops are angled at the way they are. John gives a sharp whistle, and Sherlock looks up with an expression of complete annoyance, but when the genius sees the smaller trail leading the opposite way, he gives a wry smile to his partner.

The two continue on in silence, John watching with amusement at the complete devotion Sherlock is showing. The trail fades off for a few yards, and John almost curses in disappointment until Sherlock lets out a small cry and points to more splatters on the wall of another alley. Sherlock stalks in in front of John, and the two disappear from street view.

This alley is a dead-end, and John groans softly, stepping over to lean against the corner. Sherlock whips around from the wall, looking around with a slightly confused expression. John watches the genius with tired, tired eyes, that immediately widen as Sherlock turns to face him.

A tall, slim shadow steps up behind Sherlock, towering over his own willowy figure, and two eyes gleam with malice. A white, flashing smile shines out, and the dull glint of a knife gleams besides the man's leg.

"Sherlock! Watch out!" John screams. In a rush of pure adrenaline, the doctor rushes forward and shoves the detective out of the way. Sherlock stumbles back and cracks his head against the wall, and his vision blurs and head spins. He tries to force his body to obey him, to stand up, to go and help John, because he knows he's FAILING.

And Sherlock Holmes doesn't fail.

The sounds of grunts from a struggle make their way to his ears, and then a cry of outrage from John. A growl of "You tore my jumper!" somehow brings a smirk to his face, and then he's falling, falling, falling onto the ground. He can feel his eyelids flutter close, and then he knows he's utterly defenseless.

The last thing he hears is the sound of a gunshot, and then another, and another, and it all goes black.

_John. _

* * *

**Sorry to leave it on a cliff-hanger, but this chapter was already long enough! Hopefully the next chapter will also be up in less than a week, or so we hope. Just a thanks to everyone who followed and reviewed in the last chapter; we really appreciate it! Hope y'all will review on this chapter, too. Until next chapter! **


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